But in its stead—toward morning—there appeared another idea which appealed to him as sublime, appealed to the primitive conscience, to his artistic sense of the drama, to the poet and the novelist in him. ’ ‘But where then is Gosse?’ demanded Melusine. He saw Enschede, making the empty sea, alone, alone, forever alone. By and by—as the paroxysm subsided and he became motionless—she stole back to the bungalow to wait.
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